Certain Girls

by Jennifer Weiner

  A: I don’t think there’s a writer alive—especially one who’s been pigeonholed in any way—who hasn’t dreamed about the promised land of a nom de plume. Literary writers think they could churn out a potboiler or a bodice ripper and sell a million copies. Commercial writers think that they could finally be taken seriously as the sensitive and artistic souls that they are.

  Of course, the truth is that there’s no hiding anymore, since Anonymous wrote Primary Colors and was outed as Joe Klein. The technology’s sophisticated enough to recognize every single writerly tic—which means that if you’re a published author, there’s nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide. That being said, though, I do frequently wonder what would happen if I were to try to write some arty short story under a different name. As to what that name would be, my lips are sealed . . . but I think I’d want to be one of those writers with three names and that, for the best odds with the critics, at least one of them would have to be Jonathan. Possibly two. Maybe even all three. At this point, who wouldn’t buy a book by Jonathan Jonathan Jonathan?

  Q: In some ways, Certain Girls is a story within a story—after all, Cannie’s novel Big Girls Don’t Cry is clearly the in-story version of your own novel Good in Bed. What led you to make this choice? What kind of opportunities did this foray into metafiction open up for you?

  A: First, a disclaimer: Big Girls Don’t Cry is not exactly Good in Bed. I thought about what would be the sort of ground-zero, worst-case scenario for a going-on-thirteen-year-old girl who just wants to be normal, and I figured that, as in Good in Bed, with Cannie’s ex-boyfriend writing about their sex life, it would be a loved one (in this case, Joy’s mother) writing about sex in a very explicit and revealing way.

  I wanted to deal with some of the uniquely weird stuff that happens after you write a book, and how different it is than what one might (okay, than what I might) imagine: the book signings nobody shows up for, the insanity that is a book tour, the way critics won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole if you’ve got naked-lady parts on your cover . . . or the way they’ll take what you assumed was the least momentous part of your book and try to spin it into some grand political statement you were making. It was fun and very cathartic to write those sections of the book, and there was a lot that got left on the proverbial cutting-room floor, because it was a lot more interesting to me than to anyone else.

  I also wanted to talk about the way children look for evidence of their parents’ histories and give Joy a very tangible (and hopefully funny) source of information about who her mother was in her prior life as she tries to forge her own identity outside of her mother’s shadow.

  Q: You play with so many interesting themes in this novel, ranging from the importance of appearances to the revised, more modern definition of family to the tragedy of loss and the loss of innocence. What do you most hope that readers will take away from reading Certain Girls?

  A: First and foremost, I hope they’ll come away feeling satisfied with the time they’ve spent with my story—like they’ve gotten to know the characters and, of course, like they enjoyed themselves. I really don’t set out to write “message” books, but I would hope that readers would come away from the book the way guests might come away from Joy’s bat mitzvah speech: with a sense that you can lean on your loved ones and get through whatever life sends your way.

  QUESTIONS AND TOPICS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. In the opening of the novel, Cannie thankfully observes how her daughter, Joy, is so different from herself. Joy, Cannie thinks, will have a better adolescence than her mother did. And yet it is their differences that cause such conflict and grief in the Krushelevansky household. In what ways are Cannie and Joy different? In what ways are they similar? How much of these differences are specific to Cannie and Joy, and how much are common to all mother-daughter pairs?

  2. Cannie loves her daughter so deeply and so enjoys being a mother that it is somewhat surprising to see how negatively she reacts to Peter’s request that they have a child together. Why do you think she reacts this way?

  3. On page 68, Joy seems enraged by Cannie’s repetition of a familiar story about Joy’s childhood. But Cannie can’t figure out what has upset her daughter so. Identify moments in the novel where Joy is upset with something Cannie says or does, and Cannie doesn’t understand why. Do you think Joy is being unfair, or is it Cannie who is overreacting?

  4. Cannie tries to steer Joy away from the fashion magazines her aunt Elle devours because she thinks they’re a “bad influence.” What does Joy think? Do you agree or disagree with Cannie, and why? How does the novel provide evidence to support one opinion over the other?

  5. Joy is constantly smoothing her hair over her ears to hide her hearing aids or taking them out altogether. What is she really trying to cover up? Is she ultimately successful? Why or why not?

  6. The author uses both Cannie’s and Joy’s point of view in order to emphasize the disconnect between the worlds of adult women and teenage girls. How else does the author demonstrate the generation gap in the novel? Is it really that Cannie is “clueless”? Are Shari and Elle really that dissimilar from Amber and her friends? What does this novel say about growing up and about the different types of women in the world?

  7. Cannie struggles with two absent fathers—her own, with whom she hasn’t had a real relationship in decades, and her ex-boyfriend Bruce, who not only abandoned her when he discovered that she was pregnant, but who isn’t always the most attentive or responsible parent now that he’s back in Joy’s life. And then there’s Peter, who isn’t anyone’s biological father but plays a father’s role nonetheless. Compare and contrast Bruce Guberman, Lawrence Shapiro, and Peter Krushelevansky and their relationships to their families.

  8. Describe how various children in this novel view their parents—particularly their mothers. How do you feel about these characters? Do you find the perspective of the children very different from that of the adults? Do you sympathize more with one side or another? Why or why not?

  9. Joy notes on page 196 that her father’s wife, Emily, is so tiny and timid that Joy can’t imagine her doing anything mean to anyone. But appearances often belie the truth. How do the appearances of the characters in this novel contradict who they are or what they are going through? Cite specific examples.

  10. Even though Cannie would be fine with Joy going to her cousin Tyler’s bar mitzvah, Joy decides to attend on the sly. What does Joy hope will happen at the party? What does she learn about herself and about her family?

  11. Why do you think Cannie struggles so with the idea of surrogacy? What issues is she struggling with? How do you feel about the idea of pregnancy as a business arrangement—or “babysitting,” as some of the surrogates claim? Do you think Cannie is right that these women are asking far too little for what they are giving up? Why or why not?

  12. On page 236, the author relays two news stories. One is about a sorority that dumped twenty-three girls from its roster, all of whom were either overweight, wore glasses, or were minorities. The other is about a 325-pound girl who commited suicide after being teased by classmates about her weight; the girl’s mother was subsequently charged with neglect. What statement do you think the author is making about America’s obsession with weight? Do you think these two news stories speak to the same issue, or is there a difference between them? Explain your opinion.

  13. As Joy and her classmates approach their bar and bat mitzvah dates, they struggle to shed their childhoods and be perceived as adults by greater society, especially their peers and families. Identify the various elements of so-called adulthood that these children try on. What is it that finally shows Joy what it means to be a grown-up?

  What if the one you love is the one who got away?

  Rachel Blum and Andy Landis are just eight years old when they meet late one night in an ER waiting room. Born with a congenital heart defect, Rachel is a veteran of hospitals, and she's intrigued by the boy who shows up all alone with a broken arm. He t
ells her his name. She tells him a story. After Andy’s taken back to a doctor and Rachel’s sent back to her bed, they think they’ll never see each other again.

  Rachel grows up wanting for nothing in a fancy Florida suburb, the popular and protected daughter of two doting parents. Andy grows up poor in Philadelphia with a single mom and a rare talent that will let him become one of the best runners of his generation.

  Over the next three decades, their paths cross in magical and ordinary ways. They make grand plans and dream big dreams as they grow together and apart in starts and stops. Through it all, Andy and Rachel never stop thinking about that night in the hospital waiting room all of those years ago, a chance encounter that changed the course of both of their lives.

  In this captivating, often witty tale about the bonds between women and men, love and fate, and the truth about happy endings, Jennifer Weiner delivers two of her most memorable characters and a love story you’ll never forget.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Jennifer Weiner’s newest novel, Who Do You Love

  Available August 2015 from Atria Books

  Prologue

  Rachel

  2014

  “Rachel?”

  I don’t answer. If you build it, they will come. If you ignore them, they will go away.

  Knock knock knock, and then my name again. “Rachel, are you in there?”

  I twist myself more deeply into the sheets. The sheets are fancy, linen, part of the wedding haul, and they’ve only gotten smoother with every trip through the washing machine. I pull the pillow over my head, noting that the case has acquired a not-so-fresh smell. This is possibly related to my not having showered or washed my face or hair for the last three days. I have left the bed only to use the toilet and scoop a handful of water from the bathroom sink into my mouth. On the table next to my bed there’s a sleeve of Thin Mint cookies that I retrieved from the freezer, and a bag of Milanos for when I finish the Thin Mints. I don’t want to cook. I don’t want to move. It’s spring, and sunny and mild, but I’ve pulled my windows shut, drawing the shades so I can’t see the mom brigade ostentatiously wheeling their oversized strollers down the street, and forty-year-old guys with expensive suede sneakers and beards as carefully tended as bonsais tweeting while they walk, or the tourists snapping pictures of the snout-to-tail restaurants where everything’s organic and locally sourced. The bedroom is dark; the doors are locked; my daughters are elsewhere. Lying on these soft sheets that smell of our commingled scent, hair and skin and the sex we had two weeks ago, it’s almost like not being alive at all.

  Knock knock knock . . . and then—fuck me—the sound of a key. I shut my eyes, cringing, thinking that my mother or, worse yet, my Nana will come storming through the door, full of energy and advice and plans to get me out of bed.

  Instead, someone comes and sits on the side of the bed, and touches my shoulder, which must be nothing but a lump underneath the duvet.

  “Rachel,” says Brenda, the most troubled and troublesome of my clients. Oh, God. I’d given her youngest son, Dante, a key the year before, so he could water the plants and take in the mail over spring break, a job for which I’d promised to pay him the princely sum of ten bucks. He’d asked me shyly if I could take him to the comic book store to spend it, and we’d walked there together with his hand in mine.

  “Sorry I missed you,” I mutter. My voice sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a clogged drain. I clear my throat. It hurts. Everything hurts.

  “Don’t worry,” says Brenda. She squeezes my shoulder and gets off the bed, and then I hear her, moving around the room. Up go the shades. She opens the window, and a breeze ruffles my hair and raises goose bumps on my bare arms. I work one eye open. She’s got a white plastic laundry basket in her arms, which she’s quickly filling with the discarded clothing on the floor. In the corner are a broom and a mop, and a bucket filled with cleaning supplies: Windex and Endust, Murphy’s Oil Soap, one of those foam Magic Erasers, which might be useful for the stain on the wall from when I threw the vase full of tulips and stem-scummed water.

  I close my eyes, and open them again to the sharp-sweet smell of Pine-Sol. Brenda fills the bucket to the top with hot, soapy water. I watch like I’m paralyzed as she first sweeps and then dips her mop, squeezes it, and starts to clean my floors.

  “Why?” I croak. “You don’t have to . . .”

  “It isn’t for you, it’s for me,” says Brenda. Her head’s down, her brown hair is drawn back in a ponytail, and it turns out she does own a shirt that’s not low-cut, pants that aren’t skintight, and shoes that do not feature stripper heels or, God help me, a goldfish frozen in five inches of pointed Lucite.

  Brenda mops. Brenda dusts. She works the foam eraser until my walls are as smooth and unmarked as they were the day we moved in. Through the open window come the sounds of my neighborhood. “The website said Power Vinyasa, but I barely broke a sweat,” I hear, and “Are you getting any signal?” and “Sebastian! Bad dog!”

  I smell hot grease from the artisanal doughnut shop that just opened down the block. The scent of grass and mud puddles. A whiff of dog shit, possibly from bad Sebastian. I hear a baby wail, and a mother murmur, and a pack of noisy guys, probably on their way to, or from, the parkour/CrossFit gym. My neighborhood, I decide, is an embarrassment. I live on the Street of Clichés, the Avenue of the Expected. Worse, I’m a cliché myself: almost forty, the baby weight that I could never shed ringing my middle like a deflated inner tube, gray roots and wrinkles and breasts that only look good when they’re stringently underwired. They could put my picture on Wikipedia: Abandoned Wife, Brooklyn.

  Brenda’s hands are gentle as she eases me up and off the bed and over to the chair in the corner—a flea-market find, upholstered in pink toile, the chair where I sat when I nursed my girls, when I read my books, when I wrote my reports. As I watch, she deftly strips the sheets off the bed, shakes the pillows free of their creased cases, and gives each one a brisk whack over her knee before settling it back on the bed. Dust fills the room, motes dancing in the beams of light that stream in through the dirt-filmed windows I’d been planning to have cleaned.

  I huddle in my nightgown, shoulders hunched, knees pulled up to my chest. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.

  Brenda looks at me kindly. “I am being of service,” she says. Which means she’s sober again, in some kind of program, or maybe she’s just read a book. She carries her armful of soiled linen out of the bedroom and comes back with a fresh set. When she struggles to get the fitted sheet to stay put, I get up off the chair and help her. Then she goes to the bathroom and turns on the shower. “Come on,” she says, and I pull my nightgown off over my head and stand under the water. I tilt my head to feel the warmth beating down on my cheeks, my chin, my eyelids. Tears mix with the water and wash down the drain. When I was a little girl, my mom would give me baths when I’d come home from the hospital, with Steri-Strips covering my stitches. She would wash my hair, then rinse it, pouring warm water from a plastic pitcher in a gentle, carefully directed stream. She would wipe the thick, braided line of pink scar tissue that ran down the center of my chest. My beautiful girl, she would say. My beautiful, beautiful girl.

  My sheets are silky and cool as pond water, but I don’t lie down. I prop myself up against the headboard and rasp out the question that I’ve heard hundreds of times from dozens of clients. “What do I do now?”

  Brenda gives a rueful smile. “You start again,” she tells me. “Just like the rest of us.”

  Coming Summer 2015, Jennifer Weiner's latest novel is a sweeping, modern day fairy tale about first romance and lasting love.

  Who Do You Love

  * * *

  Read this provocative and ultimately empowering tale of a working mother’s slide into addiction, and her struggle to find her way back up again.

  All Fall Down

  * * *

  Read this haunting ghost story about addiction and obligation, secrets and redemptio
n.

  Disconnected

  * * *

  Read this irresistible novel about a young woman trying to make her Hollywood dreams come true.

  The Next Best Thing

  * * *

  Read this eerie short story about a scorned housewife who finds she has a talent for writing memoirs about the deaths of her loved ones—but only so many family members can die of natural causes . . .

  A Memoir of Grief (Continued)

  * * *

  Read this unexpected love story, a timely novel about surrogacy, egg donation, and what it means to be a mother.

  Then Came You

  * * *

  Read this spooky short story about a woman whose late, abusive husband's voice seems to be inhabiting her GPS—and driving her towards danger.

  Recalculating

  * * *

  A short story about what can happen when one restless woman's best laid travel plans go astray . . .

  The Half Life

  * * *

  Read the unforgettable story of a cheating politician’s wife and daughters, who escape to the family beach house to weather the scandal.

  Fly Away Home

  * * *

  A hilarious, edge-of-your-seat adventure about small-town secrets, and the betrayals and loyalties of two best friends.